


Bioshock Infinite: Will the Circle Be Unbroken.

by Adam_Typing



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen, Novelization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:17:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adam_Typing/pseuds/Adam_Typing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Booker DeWitt is down on his luck, and out of time. His debts are deep, and his sins deeper still. So when someone offers him the chance to wipe his debt clean, he takes it.... And no matter how hard the job is, he'll see it through.</p><p>But some sins cannot be forgiven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bioshock Infinite: Will the Circle Be Unbroken.

**Bioshock Infinite: Will the Circle be Broken?**

 

“ _The mind of the Subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist....”_

- _Barriers to Trans-dimensional Travel,_

- _R. Lutece, 1889_

 

 

_My name is Booker DeWitt. I'm a Private Investigator, living in New York._

_I am not a good man._

_I don't think I ever was._

_I've been a soldier, a Pinkerton, and a workless man._

_I'm a drunkard, a bastard, a gambler, a monster._

_These sins add up for me, leave me in deep debts._

_I expected everyday for me to wake up, at my old, shoddy desk, with mooks breaking down the door, and dragging me before the men I owe. Instead, I wake up smelling of whiskey, of cheap cigarette smoke, of unwashed skin._

_I'm a wreck, with no way out, and no one to blame._

_At least... Til he came._

_I'm not certain who he is, or the whole details of the job but..._

_Bring them the girl, wipe out my debt._

_I guess I should be concerned with what they'd do with the girl, and why she's so important that they'd pay off my debts for her..._

_But I am not a good man._

_Bring them the girl, wipe away the debt. The details won't change a goddamn thing._

 

* * *

 

_**Chapter One: Ascension and Baptism** _

 

 

The rain hits my skin and I swear under my breath for not bringing a heavier coat. The two in front of me are smarter, dressed in oil slicks, and the water streams from them. They seem... very intent on their rowing.

I shiver, wrapping my arms around me, staring out at the ocean around me. The storm roars above us, and I feel like an idiot... 

My two companions barely pay attention to me, content to playfully bicker between themselves. The storm clouds shadow their faces, making them just silhouettes. The man calls out. His voice is soft, mellow, despite his raised tone.

“Are you going to just sit there?”

The lady chuckled, shoulders rising with the sound.

“As opposed to what, standing?” 

Not standing, rowing!”

“Didn't plan on it!”

I would laugh at their banter. The woman seems to believe I won't succeed, and reaches down into the hull of the boat, hefting an old, oak wood chest, passing it to me. As I reach for it, I see something loom in the fog.

The brass face plate bears my name, and... an unwelcome reminder of my past... 7th Cavalry. I don't open it, and look up at my... I guess my employers. I feel a squirming in my stomach. They've dug into me, it seems. I raise my hand, trying to stall that feeling.

“Excuse me! How long til we get there?”

I'm ignored, though I guess they are close to their destination, from the way he slows his rowing and his comments. The shadow looms over us, and I swallow down the sick sensation in my belly. I open my mouth, then close it as I catch one rather telling comment.

“One goes into an experiment, knowing it could fail.”

The woman snorts, crossing her arms, evidently not convinced, and her next comment rings bells in my head, warning me.

“One does not go into an experiment, knowing one has failed.”

I don't speak, instead focusing on the... souvenir. I pop the catch with my thumb, and check the contents. The first thing that catches my attention is a Mauser, a black stained handgun, and I lift it, checking the chamber with a familiar motion. The brass glints at me. That'll do. A leather holster, sits folded under the rest of the contents. I ease it out onto my lap. A photo, undoubtedly of my 'mark', is the next to catch my interest.

She's a fine cheeked girl, with dark, long hair. The image is close, perhaps few feet behind her. I wonder how they got it, so close, but didn't get the girl. Maybe someone went ahead, to scout ahead. She's... young.

I take the five silver coins, pocketing them in my light jacket, and pick up the key. That's new, clean, with a cage engraved on its bow. That gets pocketed too. I glance up to see the docks rolling into place beside us, and I realise that the shadow was a lighthouse. It stretches up, dirty grey against the near black of the storm. I take one last look at the box, notice a crumpled card, where my employer's have written three symbols. A scroll, a key and a sword. A code of some sort.

I climb the docks, and then turn to my employers.

“Shall we tell him when we'll be back?”

“Will that change anything?”

"Might give him some comfort."

They are rowing away already, and I chase up the dock, trying to stay close. They seem very... nonchalant and relaxed, even as they leave me on this tiny, soaked spit of land. I call out to them, over the growl of the storm.

“Hey! Is there going to be anyone to meet me!?”

The woman twists, shouting into the wind.

“I'd hope so! This would be a dreadful place to be stranded.” I catch some of the man's laughter, and they row away into the distance. Maine beckons in the distance.

I curse, wrapping my arms about myself, holding the gun rig close to me, muttering under my breath. I don't waste time watching them, and make my way, slipping and swearing, to the door. The rain pelts me, and I turn against the wind, only stopping when I see the note nailed to the door. The blood that coats the corner makes me seethe in a breath of unease. I knock on the door, nervous. I hate this feeling.

“Hello there! It's.... It's Booker DeWitt... You were expecting me!”

I push through into the shelter of the lighthouse, staring up, into the shadows of the ceiling. There isn't much light, only shining on a basin in the centre of the room. I step into the lighthouse proper, letting the door swing closed, shutting out the storm. I look down into the silver face of the basin, see my face, and rub at my chin. I need a shave, I suppose, before I catch the reflection of something else there too.

It's a cross stitch, of some old, Christian Proverb. At least, it has the tone of the biblical.

 

“ _Of thy sins, I shall wash thee.”_

 

I take a moment, then snort, shaking my head, and heading for the stairwell. “Good luck with that, pal.” I don't think anyone would absolve me of my sins, not after all I've done. I've heard some say a soldier's sins are forgivable. I don't have soldiers sins. I remove my coat, rain water spattering the floor, and do up the gunbelt over my vest. With the coat on, it's nearly impossible to see my sidearm.

I climb the stairwell, calling out again. My voice echoes back at me, and I stop to take stock of the room. It looks like a living room, with cabinets, a writing desk, a radio and a map. The map has lines traced on it, red thread pinned down. It looks like a travel path. Underneath the map is a note.

 

“ _He's coming. Stop him at any cost. -C”_

 

I turn away, the words turning in my head. Someone knows I'm coming. Someone here, maybe? And at my destination? I don't know how I'm supposed to go anywhere from this lighthouse. As I turn, I see an overturned table. It was scattered in a fight, one leg snapped, a plate and food knocked to the floor, and I kneel by it for a second. Blood dapples the corner. Just like the note. I take the handgun from its holster under my jacket, and climb the next stairs.

Lit up, in the centre of the next room, is a corpse. Sackcloth, stained red, over its head, bound to a chair. There are tools, ones not meant for this purpose, lying about, their edges turned crimson. There's a hole through the sack, and despite what I've seen and done, I choose to leave the corpse. I don't want to see what's beneath the hood. A note has been... _secured_ to the dead man. _Don't disappoint us, DeWitt._

I take a deep breath, wondering if this was the man who lived here, or another operative they had coerced, who maybe came back, in failure? Or maybe had tried to weasel out of it at the last moment. It helps me centre my opinion of my employers. They are brutal people. I know how a brutal person works. I doubt the girl will find their custody pleasant.

I move on, trying to ignore the shaking, and put the handgun away. The next stairwell leads me to the open air, and the storm howls at me again, rain pelting my face. I lean against the rain, lifting my coat collar, and find my way to the peak. Up here, the rain is heavier, and the smell of the storm, like cooked air, is stronger, aching in my nostrils. I look into the Lighthouse's glass top, through the decorative door, and I see the lamp fixture.

I wait for a moment, calming myself. I stand taller, take a deep breath. The door has three bells, brass coloured things, etched with... A scroll, a key and a sword. I know the code. I have the card, anyway, and I ring the bells.

Nothing happens.

I check the code again.

I got it right, didn't I?

I wince and cringe as I hear a horn sounding, all around. It's deafening in volume, and as I close my eyes in response, I catch a glimpse of the sky turning red around me. The horn sounds again, and I cover my ears, glaring up at the storm above.

The lighthouse groans, and I see the lamp in its centre light up. Red, just like the sky. It clicks on and off. On and off. A signal?

The sky howls once more at me, turns crimson, then fades into the storm's grey.

The door opens.

I had taken my eye off the chamber inside, and in place of a light, there's... there's a red, leather seat, impossible though it seems to me. I prod it a few times, then sigh, and sit down. Maybe it's a place for me to wait, whilst my transport, or someone arrives.

Metal clamps around my wrists, and my ankles and I struggle for a moment, shocked. I try to worm my hands free, grunting, snarling. Around me, a voice calls out.

 

“ _Prepare yourself,_ _Pilgrim. The restraints are simply a safety measure. Ascension will begin shortly.”_

 

My breathing grows quicker, and the chair tilts forward, as if to dip me down. I see black bells beneath me, and flames begin to brew there. I shout in panic. The restraints hold me up, safely.

  
My handgun has no such safety, slipping from its holster, down into the inferno. I swear after it, watching the flames cook the only weapon I had. I squeeze my arms down, making sure not to lose the key I have. I get the feeling if I lose that, I'll fail my mission.

  
The chair decides to swing back up, and I see plates rise above me, padded and enamelled. Pressure gauges and fuel counters line the panels, and I watch them click into place. A brass edged viewport sits directly in front of me.

The tower begins to rock, and I feel my stomach churn, more by panic than the violent motions beneath me.

 

“ _Ascension in three.... two.... one....”_

 

I open my mouth in a terrified shout, as the world shakes and I feel myself being pressed into the padded seat. I can smell burning oil, and my eyes water. My chest aches, as if someone is sitting on it.

 

All I can do is panic, caged in this machine. There's a shrieking sound, and I-

 

I black out.

 

Fear must have put my down for a moment.

When I manage to pull myself to consciousness, I see, that I'm above the clouds, above the storm. My eyes widen in shock, as I hear the voice announce, “ _Fifteen Thousand Feet.”_

I can barely comprehend that height, but my... my shock and awe is saved for... for the City.

It sits there, stuck in the clouds, clean, beautiful. It looks like some ideal, suburban dream, all pristine. It's... Impossible, just impossible. It can't be floating. An Angel looms from the clouds, arms stretched wide in welcome. My panicked breathing has slowed, and I lean forward, as far as I can.

A Zeppelin slowly sails past, turbines turning. It reminds me of a whale, in the ocean, inexorable and glacial. As it leaves my field of vision, a building looms up to take its place.

I see a sign, a man's face painted onto it. It bears the words _Father Comstock. Our Prophet._ The man is old, with a full, white mane of hair and matching beard. He has the look of a religious leader, a priest and pastor. I distrust the look.

The... the Ascension pod finally comes to a stop, as if it has reached its destination. I settle back, trying to calm myself. My heart feels like its going to beat out of my ribs, and my ears ring. I wince as my hearing goes strange, and something pops. I blink, and push myself from the chair, my restraints clicking back.

I have to rest, have to recover.

My head is splitting and I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, breathing heavily. The air is thin, and my mouth feels dry. It takes an effort, but I finally manage to settle myself, and take stock of my surroundings. Sunlight shines down from the roof, and I realise it's how the pod got here. A set of stairs curve downwards, and I realise it's the only way I can go.

I can hear running water, I can smell some soft, smoke scent, like church incense. The corridors I walk in are broad, with vaulted roofs. A stain glass window shines light through, and the same 'Comstock' who I saw on the signs outside is depicted here. I snort as I realise he is depicted in the manner normally reserved for saints. Above the mural, where 'Comstock' gestures to a... an image of the city for some cowering people, is a verse. _And the prophet shall lead the people to the New Eden._ A similar message is engraved in the ceiling of the next room.

“The Seed of the Prophet shall sit on the throne, and drown in flame, the mountains of man?”

It doesn't make sense to me.

This reminds me of a temple, or a church. The way sound seems to hush itself, the way the darkness of the nave seems to loom down on me. A man is waiting, clad in a pristine, white robe. He smiles at me, with unnerving serenity, and bows his head. He's standing ankle deep in water. I am still on dry stone. I realise the rest of the building is flooded, and I realise after that little revelation that it is intentional.

“Uh, excuse me, do you know where I am?”

  
He chuckles softly.

  
“Heaven, friend. Or as close we'll get til Judgement Day.”

I nod as if thinking on what he is saying, but realise that my questions will invite trouble. I decide to descend, into the next room, where the light takes on a ghostly quality. I take careful steps downwards, and I hear a preacher calling. His sermon is of Comstock, of his deeds, and they sound like an old Fire and Brimstone priest, rallying his flock against the non-believers, with a furious voice, raised to the heavens. His voice reminds me. I see a circle of men, clad in white, around him, as if in prayer. The preacher is stood, head bowed, beneath a stone motif, surrounded by angels. _This path of forgiveness is the only way to the city._ I guess that my only way in is through the circle.

“Is it someone new? Is it someone from the Sodom below?”

I gently ease my way past two men, with faint, placid smiles and stand in the waters of baptism. The preacher's eyes are milky, and I feel... relieved, somehow

“Are you newly come to Columbia? To be washed clean, before our Prophet, before our Founders and our Lord?”

  
That suddenly strikes me as wrong. I'm not a god-fearing man, but I know a little about Christian faith... There was no mention of Jesus, of the Holy Spirit.... it seems these 'Founders' and 'Prophet' might be taken in their place, as religious saints would be... That immediately puts me on edge.

This religion, and this place.... feels like a well crafted con.

“I want passage to the city.”

He laughs at this, and shakes his head.  
  
“Brother, the only way to Columbia is through rebirth in the sweet waters of baptism!”

I know what baptism is. And it isn't meant to wash one clean. It's meant to help one move on from guilt. They have it wrong. But I have no way forward aside form this. So I take his hand. He turns me about, holding my hand in a hard, crushing grip. I grunt a little at it, but don't make any other sound as he chants.

“I baptise you. In the name of Our Prophet, in the name of Founders, in the name of our Lord.”

And he pushes me under.

I endure, til he pulls me back up. He chants even whilst he submerges me.

“-born again, in the bosom of Columbia.”

Then he stops and looks at his congregation.

“But I don't know, brothers and sisters.... This one doesn't look clean to me.”

Of course I'm not clean. I... I have my sins. And they can't be washed away like this.

And he pushes me under again.

 

And holds me there.

  
I panic, and wonder if I'm already made, already blown my cover.

 

And it all goes black.

 


End file.
